Chapter 57

Buach approached Peg, hat gripped in his hands so tightly Moira thought he might soon rip it in two. “It canna be true.” His voice was thinner than ever, and it held a quaver that suggested tears were not far away.

Peg leveled a measured gaze at him but said nothing.

Buach lifted her fingers and brushed them with a kiss, murmuring the traditional sympathies before raising himself to stand as straight as he could. He avoided Moira’s gaze altogether, but when he caught Lady Williams’s eye, he flicked his head, motioning her aside.

With the grace of a swan on water, Lady Williams made her way to the hallway with Buach struggling to keep up behind her. After a moment, heated whispers could be heard, but Moira found it impossible to discern whether they were speaking in Irish or English, let alone what they might be saying.

“Stad! ” Buach’s raspy voice sliced the air.

Lady Williams reappeared in the sitting room, her cheeks flushed. The same stern expression resided on her face but fear now clouded her eyes. Behind her, Buach shuffled toward the room where Colm lay in repose. Curious, Moira slipped in behind him.

For a long while, Buach stood silent over the body, his hands twisting and untwisting his hat again and again, as though wringing water from a rag. Warmth grew near on Moira’s back, and without looking she knew Sean stood behind her.

“Has he said anythin’?”

Moira shook her head, keeping her eyes on the old man.

All at once, Buach collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobs filling the air. His shoulders shook and unintelligible words poured from his mouth along with his wails.

“Logh dom! Logh dom! ” he cried again and again.

Moira glanced over her shoulder at Sean. His brows drew together. Confusion swam in his eyes.

“What is it?” Moira kept her voice a mere whisper.

“He’s asking . . . for forgiveness.” Sean’s eyes met hers, then they both looked back at Buach. He was still balled up on the floor, one hand clutching the hem of the burial cloth draped over Colm’s body.

Lady Williams pushed past the onlookers crowding the door and stood over him. “There, there.” Her voice was flat and devoid of all emotion. “Come now, let’s get you some fresh air.”

Buach straightened but remained on his knees. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Peg, tá brón orm! ” He looked straight at Moira. “Tá brón orm. Tá brón orm.”

Moira pressed her lips together and took a step toward him. Before she could get closer, Lady Willams took his arm and pulled him to his feet.

“Pull yourself together, man,” she hissed in his ear, loud enough that the others could hear.

He sniffled loudly, wiped a dirty sleeve across his face, and yanked his other arm from her grasp.

Lady Williams jutted her chin in the air and with dainty yet hurried steps, left the room. Buach started to follow suit, but Sean grabbed him by the arm.

“Let’s have a wee chat, auld man.” Sean dragged Buach into the kitchen and all but threw him into a wooden chair near the fireplace. “What’s all this about?”

Buach hung his head, chin trembling. He wagged his head but stayed silent.

“Speak, man!” Sean bent over to meet Buach’s eyes. “Did ye start that fire?”

Buach’s gaze flew up to meet Sean’s. “Nae! Nae! I didna touch the halla!”

Sean straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “So you say.” He started to pace the room.

Moira watched, biting her lip to keep her tears at bay. What was happening?

Suddenly the crowd behind her parted, and Peg slid past Moira and into the kitchen. Men removed their caps and bowed slightly at the waist.

“Buach O’Boyle.” They were the first words Peg had spoken in hours. “I know ye loved my Colm. We all did.”

A robust chorus of ayes and hear, hears burst forth from the crowd.

“But ’tis also no saicrit that there are others here who were closer ta him than the likes o’ ye.” She paused. “So what is it ye’re so terribly sorry fer?”

The old man shook his head, swiping his nose with his sleeve again. “I canna. I canna.”

“You can’t what?” Sean crouched low, forcing him to speak face-to-face.

“We t’ought . . .” He glanced around the room, seeming to rest his eyes on the crowd in general. “We t’ought it was ye in the halla, not Colm.”

Voices rippled through the crowd, and a sickening feeling floated to the back of her throat. We?

“Ye thought it was me?” Sean pointed to his own chest.

“Nae.” Buach buried his face in his hands.

“Then who, man? Speak!” Sean gripped the old man by the shoulders and shook him until his teeth chattered.

Moira laid a hand on Sean’s back. “Sean, please.”

Sean’s trembling slowed, and he turned to look at her. She shook her head ever so slightly, and Sean took a measured step backward. “If not me,” Sean asked through clenched teeth, “then just who did you think it was?”

“We t’ought it was ye.” A crooked finger raised in the air. “Miss Doherty. The teacher.”

Gasps filled the crowded room, and Moira stumbled backward. A pair of unseen hands caught and steadied her. She didn’t look back to see who it was. She only righted herself and stared at Buach in disbelief.